


Do you know what I'm looking for now?

by queenofchildren



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Bittersweet, F/M, Pining, Runaway Bride, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:38:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake hasn't talked to the girl who used to be his best friend and the love of his life in eight years - not since she told him that they both needed time to become the people they were supposed to be and left him behind in their boring little hometown.</p><p>But now Clarke Griffin is standing on his doorstep in a puffy white dress, at right about the same time she should be in the little church down the street, walking down the aisle towards her fiancé.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you know what I'm looking for now?

**Author's Note:**

> This is another one of those "I don't know what this is or if I even like it"-kind of stories. I hope Clarke doesn't come across as too much of an asshole.  
> Title is from Tired Pony's "The Creak in the Floorboards", an excellent song for melancholy roadtrips.

 

Bellamy Blake hasn't talked to the girl who used to be his best friend and the love of his life in eight years - not since she told him that they both needed time to become the people they were supposed to be and left him behind in their boring little hometown.

But now Clarke Griffin is standing on his doorstep in a puffy white dress, at right about the same time she should be in the little church down the street walking down the aisle towards her fiancé. 

For several long moments, all he can do is stare. She looks beautiful, of course, maybe more beautiful than she did the last time he saw her all those years ago. Her hair is artfully done up and she wears subtle make-up no doubt done by his sister early this morning. Her dress with its boned bodice and flared skirt somehow makes her look classy and sexy at the same time, and since she's always had good posture, right now she looks positively regal. But there are cracks in the facade – strands of hair are escaping fom her updo, her trail is half-ripped off, and there are smudges of dirt and grass on the hem of her dress. There's something wrong with this blushing bride, not the least of which is the fact that she's standing on her ex-boyfriend's doorstep and not in front of an altar.

Bellamy's still trying to find his words when Clarke looks around, nervous and harried as if she's expecting to be followed, before she turns to him again.

“Can I come in?“

Still too stunned to reply, Bellamy takes a step back and Clarke rushes past him, her flared skirt getting stuck in the doorway until she yanks it free irritatedly.

“I told Mom we should have gone with a slimmer silhouette, but she insisted on a friggin' ball gown! I look like a princess, it's ridiculous.”

“You look like a queen.” Bellamy can't believe that that's the first thing he says to her, and now his brain finally jumps into action. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Instead of replying, Clarke glances back at the still open door before turning and heading for the kitchen, the dress swishing behind her only reinforcing how absurd this whole thing is. But since Clarke is clearly eager to avoid being seen, he closes the door, looking up and down the empty street to find that no one is approaching. And then a thought hits him: What if she's here looking for help? What if her nervousness is due to the fact that she's actually afraid her husband-to-be will find her? The thought seems melodramatic and unlikely, but as irritated as he is by the way she's exploded back into his life, the old familiar urge to protect her overpowers all other instincts. He strides after her into the kitchen, where she's perched on the edge of a bar stool at the breakfast counter.

“Are you hiding from _him_? Is he hurting you?”

Clarke's eyes widen in surprise. “No, no! It's nothing like that, he's perfectly lovely. It's just...” She looks down at her hands, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “I don't think I love him.”

Bellamy stumbles back against the kitchen counter, glad to have something solid to lean against and wondering if he's having a very strange dream. A dream that, if he's honest, he's had a few variations of ever since his sister told him about Clarke's impending nuptials. (Not that he'll ever tell her this.)

“So you ran out of your own wedding ceremony and came to _me_ , of all people?! Are you insane?”

His voice sounds a little harsher than he intended and hurt flashes across her face for a moment, before she lifts her chin in defiance.

“Well, all my other friends are in church waiting to watch me get married.”

“All your other...” The nerve of that woman, he thinks, but before he can tell her just how far they are from being friends right now, she continues, now fiddling nervously with the ring on her left hand. He identifies it as her engagement ring by the diamond set into it, so big he can't help but maliciously think that someone clearly had something to prove.

“But you are home.“ It's a simple enough observation, but her voice sounds strange when she says it.

“Yes.”

“So you could have come.“

He nods but doesn't comment. She won't get him to say why he couldn't come and watch her marry another man, even though she has to know.

“If you had, I wouldn't be standing here right now.“

“No, I guess you'd still be roaming the streets and banging on people's doors.“

“No, I mean, I would have gone through with it. If you had shown up, maybe brought a girlfriend, and wished me all the best – I would have gone through with it. But now... please tell me there's still something there, that I didn't kill it all when I left.“

And now his initial irritation flares up into full-blown anger – justified anger, in his opinion, because her showing up here and telling him that it's somehow his fault she bailed on her wedding is not only ridiculous, it's downright insulting. He slaps his hand down on the kitchen counter and Clarke jumps, startled.

“Fuck you, Clarke! That's not how it works. Remember what you said to me? _"I don't want to be your excuse for not living your life."_ Well, guess what? I'm not going to be your excuse. You don't want to marry your fiancé? Fine, don't marry him. But don't pretend that this has anything to do with me. Not after eight years of complete silence.”

He turns away from her, leaning onto the counter and breathing heavily. He hears her skirts swish and her heels clack as she gets up and walks toward him before she tentatively lays a hand on his arm, and he hates himself a little for the way her touch sparks through him.

“That's not what I meant. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to manipulate you, but when I ran out of that church, I panicked. I didn't know what to do. And then the only person I could think of, the only person who always came through for me, was you.”

He hates himself for his weakness, but he nonetheless turns his head and meets her eyes, big and pleading.

“I need you, Bellamy.”

She's only said those words once before, in the darkest moment of her life, so he knows she's not toying with him. And he knows that she's right – he'll always come through for her, no matter how much she hurt him.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get me out of here, please. We came in his car, my Mom's car is at the church, and I can't very well board a bus in my wedding dress... I just need to get away, to figure out what to do.”

He could refuse, let her deal with her own mess – god knows he deserves to be a little spiteful after what she did.

But instead, he takes his wallet and keys and pops his head out the door to check if there's anyone outside, gesturing for her to slip into the car when the coast is clear, and one minute later, they're driving past the church and she ducks down in her seat so as not to be seen by the wedding guests slowly trickling out. He spots her mom and Octavia in conversation, and a man in a tuxedo anxiously pacing up and down with his phone to his ear – the groom, probably, he thinks with an unexpected flash of pity.

“You might wanna stay down until we're out of town, I think they've started looking for you.”

Clarke makes an affirmative sound and actually listens for once, ducking down in the seat until he tells her they've left their hometown behind.

“So, where would you like me to take you?”

“Just keep going.” 

He does as he's told, and for several miles, they drive in silence, the only sound the occasional rustle of her dress. Eventually, after much wiggling about, she points at an upcoming Walmart sign and talks him into buying a few cheap clothes for her while she waits in the car. He's tempted to tell her to do it herself, but the idea of humiliating her by having her wander around a supermarket in her wedding dress is not as appealing as it should be. So he relents and buys a simple blue sundress, black cardigan, and a pair of flats which she changes into right there in the parking lot, hidden from view behind the car. When she asks him to help her undo the dress, he's almost ready to drive off and let her get out of this mess by herself. Because as much as he's mesmerized by the sight of her pale shoulders and slender neck, her familiar scent that even her expensive perfume can't cover, as much as his hands are shaking when he starts undoing the strings on the back of her dress, he knows this is wrong.

It's not so much that he knows another man was supposed to undo these later tonight, but that really, he thinks it was supposed to be him all along. It was him who wanted to take her to church, to build her a home to return to after a long day of saving lives, to raise kids with her and do whatever else she wants out of life. He wanted to give her all these things, and she didn't want them from him. Instead she left and only returned to marry another man, and yet here she is, in a Walmart parking lot, taking off a dress that he's sure cost more than he makes in a month with his help. Life is strange, he thinks as the strings give and the corseted top of the dress slides down a bit before she catches it, revealing an expanse of smooth skin that he's suddenly itching to run his hands over.

He turns away instead and walks around the car to get into the driver's seat. “Get in when you're ready.” He's proud to say that his voice is only shaking a little, and by the time she slips into the passenger seat wearing the blue dress he bought that fits somewhat passably, he has banished all memories of clothes he's taken off her over the years.

They drive in silence after that for an hour or more, while Bellamy internally debates if he should ask her to explain what the hell happened this morning or eight years ago, when she sent him that last letter. But when Clarke rolls down the window and sticks her head out into the warm wind, he decides not to bring it up. He's waited eight years to hear an explanation from her, he can wait a little longer and let her have a bit of peace.

To his surprise, it's her who starts talking first, after a gorgeous sunset has come and gone and left the car in darkness except for the occasional flash of passing headlights.

“I know it was wrong, how I left you. But at the time, I really thought I was doing the right thing. And by the time I realised how unfair I had been, it was too late. I figured you'd have moved on with your life and that it would only hurt to dredge it all up again.”

“Hence the silence.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her nod, and he can't help but believe her because, as angry as he was, maybe still is, this is exactly what Clarke would do: Get an idea in her head about something that needed to be done because it was the right thing, and then stick to it no matter what.

“So you thought breaking my heart and fucking off out of my life was the right thing to do?”

“Setting you free was the right thing to do. Bellamy, I saw the way you lived while I was in college, how you were only waiting for me to come back to start your life. But you would have had to wait for years and years, while I got through med school and did my internship and my residency.”

“And I would have! I would have waited a lifetime for you!” It baffles him that she still doesn't seem to believe him on this.

“Exactly! Don't you see? If I hadn't left, you never would have started living for yourself. This way, you stopped spending every penny you managed to save on visiting me and put it toward starting your business. Wasn't that better for you in the long run?”

“Maybe you should have asked _me_ what I thought was better for me.”

“I know I should have. Now. But... come on, you know what I was like back then – I thought I had it all figured out. I saw myself as a kind of martyr, sacrificing myself so you could be free, just like you had been willing to sacrifice your dreams, for Octavia and me.”

“Don't! Don't you dare make this about me. Don't pretend that you were making this big sacrifice for my happiness. You knew what would have made me happy? You.”

He's breathing hard by now, appalled but not really surprised by her logic.

“I'm sorry.”

For years he has longed to hear her say that, imagined her saying it in a million different ways. Now that she has, he has no idea how to reply. So he keeps driving, staring at the road with his knuckles white around the steering wheel, until he slowly manages to get himself under control again – and to harden himself against the forgiveness that threatens to spill from his lips.

“Let's just keep going. The next airport is about two hours away. Your ticket back to New York is on me – consider it a wedding gift.”

It's a cruel taunt, but she doesn't rise to the bait. Maybe she thinks she deserves it, and maybe she does. If she doesn't, it's not his job to defend her, he thinks grimly. But he's still not appeased. With every minute more he's alone with her, so maddeningly close that he can't help but constantly keep a list of things about her that have changed and things that haven't, the old wound she left is torn open a little bit more. And now that he has her here, alone and in person, he can't resist asking all the questions he never really got an answer to.

“You said that I loved you too much. That this kind of power imbalance would not work, or something like that.” He only pretends not to know the exact words, as if he hadn't read that letter over and over again.

“I was wrong about that. There was never a power imbalance. You were never the problem.”

“What does that even mean? If I was never the problem, then why the fuck didn't you show your face for the last eight years?”

“I don't know! Because I was scared, because I didn't think I deserved you, because I didn't want to hurt you again. One of those things, or maybe all of them.” Her voice is shaking, and when he turns his head a little to look at her, she's wiping away tears. “And now... Look at me, I just keep hurting people. Maybe there's something wrong with me.”

He's silent for a long moment, trying to hold on to the last of his anger, his only defense against the fact that even now, even after she broke his heart, he can't stand to see her sad. He gives in a few heartbeats later, sighing.

“There's nothing wrong with you. You're just... someone who thinks they always have to do the right thing.”

“Was it? The right thing?”

“No. It wasn't. I mean, the part about my business was right, I did manage to put a little more aside. But I also spent a lot of time lying around and pitying myself instead of actually working, so in the end, I don't think it made that much of a difference.”

He tries to keep it light – what's the point now of telling her that the months after she broke up with him were the worst of his life? For a moment, she looks like she wants to ask more about that. Then she apparently decides against it.

“It's going well, Octavia says. Your furniture business.”

“It is. The area's been doing well lately, people are willing to spend money on good craftsmanship.”

He doesn't quite manage to keep a note of pride out of his voice, but then why should he? Let her think he's bragging – he may not be a hotshot doctor, but she's not the only one who achieved something.

“That's great!”

And because she sounds genuinely excited for him, he politely returns the question, trying to ignore how weird it is to be making smalltalk in this situation. “How about you? How's doctoring working out for you?”

“The hours are killing me, competition is cut-throat and I may develop a stress-ulcer soon.” She pauses and smiles a little. “I love it.”

“I'm happy to hear that.” And he is, really. And then he looks at her once more, sees the expression on her face, and says something he probably shouldn't: “You made the right call today. If you sounded half as excited about your fiancé as you do about your work, you wouldn't be sitting in this car right now.”

There's a long silence, and then her hand is suddenly on his arm, startling him. “Thank you. I knew you'd understand. Maybe not condone it, but.... understand.”

He nods, suddenly tense, not knowing if he wants her to take her hand off or not. It's warm and small, and her touch still feels so familiar it hurts.

“Why did you even...?”

“Agree to marry him at all?” She shrugs. “I don't know. All my friends are getting married. We've been dating for almost a year, it seemed time for us to do the same.”

“You guys work together, right?” Yes, Octavia has been keeping him updated – no doubt hoping he'd see it as an incentive to burst into the church and make a great romantic gesture at the last moment. But of course, Clarke managed to wreck her own wedding without his help just fine.

“Yes. That's going to be awkward.”

“Probably.” He doesn't know what else to say and she doesn't volunteer anything either, so they lapse back into silence. But it's a silence that is somehow less fraught with emotion, and Bellamy realizes that somewhere on this road, he left behind his anger, and the only thing left was the realization that a part of him never stopped loving her. Glancing over at Clarke again, he remembers how often they used to do this, especially in the months after her father's death: Hopped into his car and just drove out of town, no direction in mind. She had once said that these little trips had helped her more than anything else, had become her sanctuary, and he guesses that's what drove her here, rather than any unresolved feelings for him.

He tries to stick to that interpretation, but her words from this morning keep popping up in his head: _Tell me there's still something there_. There is, and probably always will be. But he doesn't tell her that, forces himself to stay quiet. She'll have enough of a mess to clean up in her own life anyway.

With both of them lost in thought, the silence lasts until they reach the airport, where he quickly gets her a ticket, and then she's ready to go through security and he's torn between relief to see her go and the urge to ask her to stay. He doesn't, of course, he has some impulse control. But he does allow himself to imagine it for a second, a little scared by how attractive the idea is.

Her question tears him out of his thoughts: “What do I do now?”

“Now you figure out what you want. Not what you think you should want, and what is best for others, but what you _really_ want.”

She nods. “That sounds like something I should have done a long time ago.”

“I'm not going to argue with that.”

Clarke smiles shakily. “Better late than never, I guess.”

“Yeah. Better late than never.” And God, he hates himself a little bit then, but he can't resist drawing her in for a hug that was meant to be quick but lasts long enough for him to breathe her in. Just one last time, he tells himself, before she disappears back out of his life again. By the time he gets back, it'll be like nothing ever happened. Reluctantly, he lets go of her again and pushes her away. “Don't worry, Princess. You'll figure it out.”

She does that thing she always did when he called her that: an exaggerated eyeroll followed by a tiny, half-hidden smile. His heart aches at the familiarity of it, and he's about to just bark out a quick goodbye and get the hell away from her when she asks:

“What about you?”

Right. There's a good chance that he'll run into one of her wedding guests at home, and she's probably worried what he'll tell them about their little road trip. He wonders angrily if she actually thinks he'd take advantage of the fact that she came to him in her moment of weakness just to get revenge.

“Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about this.”

“That's not what I meant. I mean – what do you want?”

Her eyes are wide, questioning, and he can neither bring himself to lie nor to tell her the truth. He settles for something in between.

“I want what I've always wanted.”

And before she can ask another question, he turns and walks away from her. She either knows by now or she doesn't.

He forces himself not to turn around on the way to the exit, but he does allow himself to look back once more after she's gone through security – only to find that she's watching him too, waving at him with a little smile that makes his heart clench. Then he gets into his car and starts the long, lonely drive back.

Back home, he drives by Clarke's house and drops the dress off with Abby, thankful when she doesn't ask any questions. His sister believes his story about a trip to inspect a new wood shipment, and he even manages to feign surprise when she tells him the explosive news of Clarke's turn as a runaway bride. And that, he thinks, is the last he'll hear about this whole crazy day. That emotional talk in his car, as necessary as it was, signified the end of the chapter of his life titled _Clarke_ , no matter how much he wishes it was different.

He's wrong about that, he finds one week later when he goes through the mail: There's a letter; a long, sweet, apologetic letter, with a plane ticket to New York enclosed in the envelope.

It doesn't take him more than a second to decide. They will have a lot of talking to do, and it will take him some time to trust her not to run away again. But who is he to lecture others about figuring out what they want and then not doing the same when the opportunity presents itself?

He uses the ticket.

 

 


End file.
